


les œufs

by anicula



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Model/Photographer AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anicula/pseuds/anicula
Summary: Yuri models.Otabek sends packages.Nothing of great import occurs.





	les œufs

**Author's Note:**

> un-orphaned old work.

**a side**

 

“A deliver for Mr. P - Pli -”

“For Mr. Plisetsky?” Mila interrupts the stammering delivery boy. She looks about fifty shades of done with the blushing adolescent and Yuri can’t fault her. 

The teen was blushing and stuttering and he really needed to talk to Otabek about his messengers of choice. He made an impatient grabby motion at Mila once she finally freed the small black box from the teenager’s no doubt clammy hands. 

“Gimme, gimme, gimme.” Yuri is only kept still through the virtue of being pinned up by the tailor. 

“Gimme, gimme never get,” Mila mocks lightly, as she hands him the gift. 

And it is a gift, of that Yuri is sure. 

He lifts up the lid carefully, revealing black velvet and nestled within, a small egg. A small, gorgeous dark green Fabergé egg supported by white gold embedded with diamonds. Mila’s low whistle isn’t enough to tear his attention away from it. It’s perfect and exactly what he wanted without him ever realizing how much he needed this tiny, amazing pendant in his life before opening the box. 

“You really need to put a ring on that,” Mila says over his shoulder. She’s peering at the pendant with all the judgment of a future in law. Yuri can see her mentally count the diamonds and assess the setting. 

He snaps the box shut. 

“Was there anything else?” he asks the boy who was still loitering around the door. 

“A note.” The boy relinquishes it to Mila with a squeak when she stalks over to him. 

Mila, having zero boundaries despite Yuri paying her wages, flips the note open and reads it out loud, “Wear it.” She looks over at Yuri with a smirk. “He certainly doesn’t beat around the bush does he?” 

Yuri yanks the note from her when she gets close enough. “Mind your own business,” he sniffs. He likes to think that the years of dealing with her teasing has made him immune to rising to the challenge. It hasn’t, not really, but trying outright dismal sometimes catches her so off guard, she lets off for a while. And this time, it lasts long enough for him to smooth out the edges of the note to read it for himself. 

 _Wear it_. 

In Otabek’s neat, square letters. There’s a tug on his insides, a softening that counteracts his initial impulse to go  _no, fuck that_. He doesn’t realize he’s actually tracing the damn letters until the tailor makes a soft tsking noise and says, “Please keep your arm still Yuri.” 

Yuri hastily hands everything back to Mila who’s trying her best to stifle her laughter, though she ends up looking equal parts deranged and fond when she casts her eyes on Yuri. 

 

 

 

When questioned, Yuri would say he doesn’t remember when they started. The gifts, the notes, and even occasionally, the flowers. But that would be a lie. Because in his room - his real room at his grandfather’s house and not that sterile, modern monstrosity he calls his apartment - there is a wooden box cushioned with worn cotton that houses all of them. The flowers are painstakingly pressed, the notes are stacked, and the gifts wrapped in their velvet pouches.  

The very first trinket was a multi-coloured egg that was more of an eyesore than it was actually beautiful, but Yuri - sixteen old Yuri was  _in love_. The different facets of the coloured gems, how they reflected light so beautifully especially if the sun was just rising and he was sitting at a certain angle on his windowsill. 

He had instagrammed it the first time he got the light to reflect just right. A photo with no caption or tags because nothing could do something so magnificent justice. 

That gift had come with an unsigned note written on heavy cream paper. 

 _these tsavorites pale in comparison to yours_  

And Yuri had not swooned at those words, had not even pretended to fall gracefully on his bed the way the heroines in his novels most definitely did not do. He had however, allowed himself a small - or well, a rather large to be honest - moment of glee. Honest unadulterated glee like nothing else had given him before, not even the Balmain campaign that had set off his career. 

It was brief moment, before real life kicked back in and reminded him that this could’ve been sent by some gross creep who was only kissing ass on their way to an exclusive interview. 

But he still wrapped it back in its velvet and placed it reverently next to his cologne. 

 

 

 

Yuri doesn’t figure out who’s sending him the gifts until two more eggs and a year later. 

His life goes on as usual - or as usual as it could get when he was still young and thin, eyes large and imploring, or so the makeup artists like to tell him. He’s flexible enough from years of ballet to bend at impossible angles that make his posing a bit more like a broken ragdoll’s, more alluring to the greedy eyes behind camera lenses than all those straight lines promised by the impossibly slim. 

He still walks for the occasional designer who doesn’t believe in him. Who want to verify that this is the boy wonder they wanted to sign. 

For the casting, Yuri’s wearing a boring grey overcoat, immaculately tailored, but so boring he wanted to rip the sleeves off just to make it  _interesting_. But he keeps his chin down and walks, giving into exactly none of his impulses because he can see Mila glowering at him from the corner, already giving him her evil eye. 

“That’s enough,” says the dark haired man for the first time since Yuri’s entered the room. He claps his hands for his assistant to come over with the papers for Mila. 

And that’s another done job for Yuri. He thinks nothing of it until they’re leaving, coats already on, when the man stops Yuri from following Mila out with a hand on his elbow. 

“That pendant looks nice with your hair,” the man says, nodding at the tiny rose locket around Yuri’s neck. 

Yuri brings his hand up to it hesitantly. “Thanks.” 

He knew that he needed to be as unadorned as possible for all his castings, but this gift had arrived this morning and he wanted so bad not even Mila could sway him from taking it off. The man’s gaze, while not disapproving, was intense and Yuri’s nervous despite having already been handed the contract.

He has no chance to speak again before Mila comes back into the room for him, realizing he wasn’t behind her, and he gets an “I’m glad you’re wearing them, “ as a parting remark just as Mila hustles them out of the room with apologetic smiles. 

 

 

 

Through some not-so-expert sleuthing, Yuri learns that the man’s name is Otabek Altin, son of some business tycoon, and more importantly, the creative director of the house Yuri’s snagged the fall campaign for. 

Otabek rarely shows up to the photo shoots themselves though, they’re mostly done through the stylist and the photographer and the myriad of assistants always hovering just out of sight. 

The one and only time Yuri sees him at a shoot that season, he’s a quiet shadow along the back, so unobtrusive Yuri doesn’t notice him until he’s making his way to the last rack of clothes for the shoot. Otabek has his head bent close to the petite French stylist who’s gesturing to a neat row of pressed aubergine slacks. 

He’s jerked out of his staring by an assistant ushering him towards to the changing tent. 

“Want something to drink?” she asks, neatly dodging the wide sweep of the cape he’s been put in. 

Yuri swallows, dry and parched, not sure if it had anything at all to do with the unexpected heatwave. “A water please.” 

“Sure thing,” she says as she ducks back out, leaving him to the hands of another who immediately sets about unbuttoning and unpinning him from his clothes. 

The lady unraveling his layers tuts and fusses as she does, moping the back of his neck even though he swears he’s not that warm. Her icy cold fingers prodding him keeps him from noticing Otabek entering the tent until the man is right in front of him, telling the lady something in Kazakh that Yuri has no hope of understanding. 

Her only response is to sigh and prod at Yuri one last time before moving away and fussing around the table with the cuff links and tie clips. 

Otabek watches her go with the smallest upturn of the mouth and turns to Yuri. He opens his mouth and - 

“Thanks,” Yuri’s mouth blurts out of its own volition, interrupting whatever Otabek was going to say. His arm is a little slower on the uptake and his hand untucks the small red serpent egg from under his shirt an awkward half beat after his rushed thanks. 

Otabek smiles, a soft surprised thing, and says, “You’re very welcome,” in the warmest tones. “It looks good on you,” he offers when Yuri stays silent in his too thick blazer and too tight tie. 

And then the uncomfortable heat that’s been sitting at the base of his neck spreads up and out, so hot Yuri can see the red from his peripherals. It’s his turn to offer thanks and he does it by breaking their strange staring contest, looking away with a croaky, “You didn’t have to.” 

Otabek shrugs, looking nowhere near as discomfited as Yuri felt. “I wanted to, and they look good on you.” 

“You do this for all the models?” Yuri quips, trying for fun and flirty, but ultimately, knowing his own faults, coming off as insecure and biting. 

Otabek’s laugh is quiet and low enough that the lady by the table doesn’t even look up. “Not all the models,” he says, stepping back into Yuri’s line of sight. “Just ones with the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

That helps not at all with the furious blush running across Yuri’s cheeks. He hates how Otabek says it like some undeniable truth of the universe, how he offers the compliment so freely without any of the snide pursed lips so common in their line of work. Yuri stares unseeingly ahead, hoping to counteract the stain of red to no avail. He’s saved from answering by the lady coming back and interrupting them. 

“The next set’s ready, we need to get him changed.”

Otabek leans back, out of orbit, and he stays there as the lady changes Yuri with utilitarian efficiency.  

 

 

 

The warmth of Otabek’s mouth wakes him from slumber. It’s still dark out, but it’s winter in Russia, the darkness means nothing in relation to time. Otabek seems to be in no rush, just pressing open mouthed kisses along the line of Yuri’s spine.

He must have felt Yuri waking because he makes his way up from the dip of Yuri’s spine to kiss the nape of his neck.

“What time is it?”

“Early.” And then, a soft click, a whir that signifies Otabek’s at it again with his tiny old camera. 

“If there’s drool in that picture I’m never talking to you again,” Yuri threatens. 

“You look beautiful,” Otabek promises gravely.

Yuri shifts to shoot Otabek a suspicious look.  _Beautiful_  in Otabek’s diction could mean anything from ready for a photo shoot to Yuri with eyes red rimmed and puffy from disease.

“I’ll get the coffee on,” Otabek concedes when Yuri bats at his arms, kissing the corner of Yuri’s mouth and pulling the sheets back up before leaving.

“You’d better,” Yuri grumbles into the pillows. He’s not completely upset, though he suspects Otabek already knows from too many years of sharing room and board. He picks up the small creaky thing Otabek left behind for a lack of anything better to do. It’s an analog and Yuri drops it with a huff, there’s no way he can figure out if the pictures Otabek took were half decent until Otabek does his magic with the film first.

In the silence of the room, he burrows deeper into the warm spot he’s made himself and he feels his eyes drooping even as the smell of pancakes waft into the room.

A suspicious mechanical sound rouses him from his almost nap. He cracks open an eye to see Otabek holding the black monstrosity he usually used.

“Don’t you have pancakes to not burn?” Yuri growls – mumbles really – at the lens pointed at him.

“They’re done, coffee’s on,” Otabek answers with a small shrug. He lifts the camera back up and aims it once more at Yuri’s disgruntled face.

Yuri turns his back to him in response. The shutter sounds don’t stop, they do however, get closer until Yuri feels the distinct chill of something trailing in the dip between his shoulder blades.

“What is that?”

A small pale orb rolls its way over his shoulder and into his line of sight before Otabek kisses the side of his head.

“Happy Birthday Yura.”

 

 

 

**b side**

 

The pinch to Yuri’s side is a shock to his system. 

“For the love of everything I hold dear, could you for one second, stop thinking about lover boy and pay attention.” Mila is appropriately irritated and from the quick tapping she’s doing on her phone, Yuri would say that they’re running later than usual. 

“I’m  _not_  thinking about Otabek,” Yuri replies coolly, staring out the window of the car so he didn’t have to meet Mila’s sly look. 

“Is that why you’re clutching that so tightly?” she says, looking at the blue pendant Yuri had unknowingly tangled between his hands. 

Yuri frowns down at his traitor hands. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him about your abysmal solar system sized crush on him,” Mila says conspiratorially just to rile Yuri up. At his glare, she leans back with a smirk. “Cause then we’d also have to talk about his stupid solar system sized crush on you.” 

“He does  _not_  have a crush on me,” Yuri shoots back, impassive, meeting Mila’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. 

“Honey, you fuck regularly,” Mila says, “and exclusively. So exclusively it makes Chris cry every time we talk about it.” 

Yuri deigns to give her no response but the self-satisfied smile curling around his mouth is impossible to stop. Mila’s half excited squeal at catching him out is equally impossible to ignore. 

“So I  _was_  right - you  _are_  dating.” 

“Why are you so gauche?” Yuri lets out an irritated puff of air. 

“Don’t get all Victor on me.” Mila aims a light kick at his boots. “And answer the question mister, we’re in the car for the next hour, you can’t escape me.”

“No, we’re not dating,” Yuri says with a roll of his eyes. “Happy you harpy?”

“ _What_?” Mila jerks him around to face her fully. “Then why are you so happy?” She peers at him through narrowed eyes.

Yuri pulls out his phone, flips to the email Otabek sent him this morning and shoves it in Mila’s face. Her face tenses as she reads, mouth opened, then closed, and finally, pursued into an irritated thin line when she finishes reading. 

“You didn’t  _think_  to tell me when you first got this?”

Yuri shrugs in response. The truth was, he hadn’t been sure what to make of it when he had first got it. He’d read it, then re-read it, and then had Lilia read it just to make sure Otabek was saying what he thought. Mila’s doing it now, taking the phone from his grip and swiping through the email again, murmuring the words to herself. 

When she’s done, she leans back and fixes her stare on Yuri’s face. “You know this is big right? Big as in we gotta talk to Viktor about this. And he might say no, no matter how much he loves you like his own. In fact, he might say no because he loves you like his own.”

Yuri pulls a face. “Viktor is  _not_  my father,” and in a quieter voice as he takes his phone back, “Besides Otabek’s offering a lot.” 

“I don’t think any amount would be enough for Viktor to agree to you modelling exclusively for your lover boy,” Mila says. “You’d be tied down with no other options.” 

“I could threaten to retire,” Yuri points out with no bite.

Mila smiles, a small thing that does more to unsettle Yuri than anything else, and pokes his side with her finger. “Look at you, baby all grown up and ready to fight for love.”

Yuri shoots a glare at her. 

Mila raises her hands up. “Alright, alright, I’ll get us a meeting with the old coot.” 

 

 

 

“You are  _not_  doing this to me,” Yuri says, mouth pursed. 

“You don’t have to say yes,” Otabek counters. 

His hands are cupped around a glass monstrosity. The panels are transparent enough for Yuri to make out what the inside holds and he grimaces.

Pulls his mouth down into a frown.

Sighs.

Holds his hand out for the stupid thing because even if he hated everything it represented, he still wanted it. 

“Is that a yes?” The bemusement in Otabek’s voice withstands the force of Yuri’s glare. 

“No.” 

 

 

 

Mila is sitting there, looking at him, stupefied. Yuuri is on the couch and not looking much better. Viktor is the only one who’s still carrying on, setting food down and placing the utensils on the table without missing a beat. 

“But you’re not engaged,” is what Mila says eventually, her mouth sounding out the words as if they were being said in a foreign language, the vowels landing strangely. 

Yuri narrows his eyes at her. 

“Viktor, this is your fault, you did this.” Mila turns to Viktor with an accusing finger and pours the wine from his glass into hers. 

“ _Excuse you_ , this is my life and I’m fine thanks for asking, I love being in discussions about me,” Yuri says with a glare. 

“I’m sorry? Are we gonna go over the fact that your uh -  _friend_  of six years just proposed to you, but somehow you’ve managed to turn it into a let’s be best pals forever? Cause we can, in case you missed how fucking weird that was the first time around,” Mila says, her wine swirling dangerously close to the rim of the glass. 

She’s turned her finger from Viktor to the Yuri’s latest addition to his hoard of pendants sitting in the middle of the coffee table.

 

 

 

Otabek slides the neon pink concoction away from Yuri’s less than enthusiastic grasp. “Don’t.”

Yuri glances at him, twirling the multi-coloured ring around his middle finger round and round, before looking over at the hulk of a man wearing a poorly tailored suit four stools over who had bought him the drink.

“Or what?” he shoots back without heat. The drink is too far away for him to make a bid for it, but he’s tempted to try, just to see that small downturn of Otabek’s mouth that meant disapproval but not disappointment.

“Or we’re leaving,” Otabek says, mouth right next to Yuri’s ear as he trails his knuckles down Yuri’s exposed back, settling at the small dip right before where the satin folded over warm skin.

“Leaving? So soon?” Yuri asks, tilting his head back to meet Otabek’s gaze head on. “But it’s my birthday,” he continues, blinking slow and uncomprehending on purpose.

“Is it?” Otabek replies. He lifts Yuri’s hand up to kiss the ring and leaves it enclosed in his grasp. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Yuri wriggles his fingers until they’re holding hands. “I thought I was missing presents.”

Otabek hums and pulls Yuri into his arms, his hands moving over Yuri’s midriff and when they settle, there’s a small box between them waiting for Yuri to open. 

From the logo on the box, Yuri can already guess.

“Will you never run out of these damn things?” Yuri says as he flips the lid to reveal an egg inlaid with little gems.

“New line - just for you,” Otabek murmurs in his ear.

Yuri holds it up and eyes the gems. “It’s a little 16 year old isn’t it?” he asks, looking at an egg that was, while not completely reminiscent of his first egg, not completely dissimilar either. He pulls his hair to the side and motions for Otabek to help him put it on.

“Do you like it?”

Yuri rolls his eyes and huffs, because while the egg was very, very colourful, it overlapped in nice circles and he was a damn magpie deep down so yes, he loved it but -

“No.”

Otabek just looks at him with that dark gaze of his and places a kiss on Yuri’s temple.


End file.
